


For King and Country

by Fen_Assan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Banter, Cute with Potentially Lots of Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, Rare Pairings, Romance, There Will Have to Be Some Angst There But More Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:53:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/pseuds/Fen_Assan
Summary: Alone in her bed for entirely too long, Hawke is getting twitchy. When she meets the King of Ferelden, she unexpectedly discovers she might like a partner in more than just her bed. Written as a two-chapter Secret Santa gift fic, but it seems like the story wants to be told past that. ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cjulina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjulina/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, CJ! I hope you enjoy this. :) 
> 
> Seems like this story has all the intent of running away with me, so let's see where it ends up. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Some of the dialogue in the Keep is taken straight from the game.

“No way! Really?” the pirate’s bust pushed unceremoniously against Hawke hunched over her desk as Isabela tried to get a look at the letter.

“I shit you not,” Hawke chose to surrender the parchment to her friend rather than bear more of the bosomy assault. Not that it was entirely unpleasant - she had last had sex so long ago she was near considering Andraste’s tits quite appealing, and she was sure those had nothing on Bela’s - but the touch distracted her from trying to decipher the meaning of the note. The fact that it contained precisely three lines and of those - only one sentence, did not help in the least. 

“Hmm,” Isabela purred, “I met him once, you know. Long before he was king of course. In fact, I was this close” she left a barely visible gap between her thumb and index finger, “to having a threesome with him.” Hawke felt her eyebrows chase one another up her forehead in surprise, one clearly winning the race. 

“I can't believe I haven’t heard _this_ story before,” she crossed her arms under her much more modest compared to her friend’s breasts. “And who would be the third participant of the threesome that never happened? Must be no one less than the Hero of Ferelden,” she smirked, sprinkling a considerable amount of sarcasm over her words. 

“It was in fact,” Isabela pushed one hip to the side, the cut in her tunic immediately offering a view of her bare thighs. How the woman never got cold was beyond even Hawke’s understanding. “Or would have been,” she shrugged. 

“Wait, you actually slept with the Hero of Ferelden?!” 

“No,” the pirate sighed, disappointedly and unblushingly. “Sadly, the ‘twosome’ never happened either. They weren't for fun at all, those boys. So righteous. So shy. So cute.”

“Which one was cute?”

“Both,” the pirate’s face turned dreamy. 

“And which one shy?” Hawke felt her lips stretch in a smile not too removed from lecherous. Isabela’s answer came in the form of the parchment dangling in front of Hawke’s eyes. The words _King Alistair of Ferelden_ , blurred in her vision, were feeding all sorts of unexpected images in her head. 

“I wonder if he’ll be more open to the idea this time. I mean he’s gained experience. The man’s a king now after all,” Isabela straightened up, pushing her shoulders back, which revealed even more cleavage. She behaved as if her prey was already in sight. Hawke wanted to groan. 

“Even if King Alistair does, I can see absolutely no scenario in which Fenris will agree to it too,” Hawke tried to dampen the pirate’s mood becoming annoyed with her friend’s inexhaustible lust and greed. Damn, the Rivaini was getting laid on a regular basis, did the concept of “enough sex” even exist for that woman?

“Oh, you’d be surprised, dear. Fenris does take some encouragement and persuasion, but…”

“I don't need to know more.” Hawke cut off, uncertain if the reason for that was Bela’s love of detail, or the still remaining hints of her own jealousy. Fenris and herself had had that one night together years ago, but both were happier having agreed to remain friends. It might have been the lack of romance in her life at present that made Hawke so sensitive. 

“Hawke.” His deep voice startled her. She was pretty sure it was too early in the day to be hallucinating, but there he was, Fenris, staring at the women from the doorframe, a crease between his eyebrows. “Isabela.”

“What are _you_ doing here?” the pirate asked nearly indignantly. 

“Having breakfast with Hawke. Or was supposed to. While you, as you told me earlier, have “business to deal with”,” he accused, but Isabela was unperturbed.

“Well yeah, I had to have some girl talk with Hawke.” 

“Since when is that _business_?” he grumbled. “You could have told me. Would have stayed in bed longer.”

“Don't worry, handsome, I’ll make it up to you,” Isabela murmured, wrapping herself around the elf, who peeled her limbs off him one by one and strode towards the kitchen. 

“You're free to keep girl-talking. And no, I do not wish to know what that implies. I am hungry.” Somehow, it was no surprise that both women followed suit. 

***

“Champion armour set, eh? Not bad,” Isabela appraised Hawke who had finally emerged from her estate. “No helm to top it all off, hmm?” 

“Fuck you, Bela. What do you want to say?” Hawke bristled as they started off towards the Keep.

“Oh I wish, sweet thing. Nothing! Except that your arse looks better in those pirate pants you have. You know, rounder.” Hawke was torn between feeling flattered Isabela knew which armor made her bum look more flattering, and annoyed at her constant interfering. The Rivaini had invited herself and Fenris to accompany the Champion to the meeting with Fereldan royalty, and there was no getting rid of them humanly possible. 

“How is this a discussion about behinds?” Fenris frowned. “I was under the impression we were trying to figure out what the King might want with Hawke.”

“You're right, Fenris,” Hawke confirmed, touched by his concern, but not enough to be serious about the matter. “That’s exactly what I asked myself first. Well, that, and thinking I’m finally about to be busted for all the shit I nicked back in Ferelden,” she grinned, hiding her slight apprehension well enough, she thought. 

“That would be grand,” Isabela laughed, “being apprehended by the King himself. You never know, maybe even manhandled,” she wiggled her eyebrows and winked at groaning Hawke. Fenris simply dismissed Isabela’s comment with a flat look. 

The rest of the short walk was spent in regular bickering and building ridiculous theories to explain the royal interest. By the time she slammed her hand on the handle to pull the massive door open, Hawke became a trifle nervous, not because of the King, but her own companions: Fenris turning hostile out of his protectiveness towards Hawke while Bela tried to pull the Fereldan ruler into bed, did not bode well. Fetching Aveline before looking for the King was Hawke’s only hope if the meeting was to boast any semblance of propriety. 

Her plan went surprisingly smoothly as they slipped through the City Guard barracks and into the Guard Captain’s office. Aveline needed a few minutes: to dismiss two guards having heard their report, then to finish scribbling some notes pertaining to the report, and then to freak out briefly when she found out she was about to find herself in the company of the King of Ferelden. The only thing Hawke did not anticipate was finding Varric with Aveline, but she figured he was a good choice of companion to meet dignitaries: the dwarf knew his manners - if only it was not always predictable if he would use them or not - and was one of the most eloquent of her friends. 

She felt ready. For about two minutes total, for when the five of them ascended the steps leading to the Main Hall, their ears were assaulted by the kind of speech which was bound to be accompanied by spitting as words were coughed up in rage. 

“Meredith,” Hawke groaned and rubbed at her forehead, feeling the unmistakeable signs of an approaching headache. “I wonder who’s her unfortunate victim today.” The party slowed their steps without agreeing to, but it would have been too ridiculous even for Hawke to try to hide, so they emerged into the hall just in time for Meredith’s parting words.

“...I do not deal in “maybes”. I deal in cold, hard facts - as should you. Perhaps when Ferelden next chooses a king, it will be one that takes his duty to the Maker seriously.” The tall woman who had just spat the last words into a man’s face was a formidable sight, looking ferocious as ever as she turned away from two somewhat stunned men, and marched outside past Hawke, her icy blue eyes shooting a considerable number of daggers Hawke’s way. Hawke was doing a good job controlling herself, a fake smile plastered to her face, all until she did a tiny curtsy. Fuck. 

“You really don't want to just live a normal life, do you, Hawke?” Varric whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. Fenris shook his head, and Aveline sighed and let her head drop. 

“Fuck Meredith,” Isabela supported, “and not in a nice way.” Unsure whether to feel encouraged or alarmed by the pirate’s comment, Hawke strode towards the two men. 

Neither of them wore a crown, or any other regalia which would distinguish him as royalty. The one with fiery hair was wearing garb which could be well described as courtly, although not truly fit for a king. She could only see the back of the other man - currently scratching his neck - clad in heavy armour. She placed her bet on him being the one she sought. The jab her ribs received from Isabela the moment he turned to face them was a confirmation she was not sure she needed. 

“How do you do, Your Majesty,” Hawke greeted, smiling broadly, having successfully suppressed a coughing fit.

“I’ve been better. Manlier too, come to think of it,” he answered with a lopsided smirk, which immediately proved Bela had not been lying - he was indeed cute. 

“This is the Champion of Kirkwall,” the King’s companion proclaimed bowing ever so slightly to Hawke, who felt exceedingly awkward at being introduced by someone not a single letter of whose name was familiar to her. The King made a step towards her and extended his hand for - Hawke noted, pleased - a firm and confident shake. 

“Right! I’m Alistair...uh, king of Ferelden.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Alistair, Your Majesty,” Hawke was not sure what drove her to say his name, but at least she covered it with his title right away, she figured. Should not make for a huge problem, should it? His gaze stopped on her for a moment, a twinkle of a smile in his brown eyes, maybe a hint of interest? Hawke did not have a chance to find out for at that moment they heard a slam of heavy metal armour on the marble floor, and turned to its source: Aveline, on one knee, head bowed low. 

“Ooh, that must’ve hurt,” Varric winced. 

“There we go. The mannish one’s lost her marbles,” Isabela mocked, “all over this marble floor.”

“Your Majesty. May I say what an honour it is to meet you?” the red-headed warrior uttered without fully lifting her head.

“Well, you could, but you’d be the first today,” the King quipped. 

“But definitely not last,” Hawke flashed a charming smile, to the accompaniment of another smirk from the King, and a couple of groans from her own companions. 

“Coming on a little strong there, Hawke,” Varric whispered. “Where did you leave your roguish subtlety?” She did not care. She was meeting a king, who was smiling at her, and who had invited her there himself. However long her five minutes of triumph were going to be, she was intent on enjoying them to the full. 

“I fought at Ostagar,” Aveline stood up, her face contorted by memories. “What happened there was… a great tragedy.” Hawke knew that, and she felt for the people who died in the massacre, and those who lost families and homes. But talking about that was hardly the reason why the King was there: it was not the time. 

“Trust the big girl to sour the mood,” Isabela complained as she stepped forward, assuming a seductive stance as easily as she breathed. “So, you’re a king now. Moving up in the world,” she raised a brow and pursed her lips, to Fenris’ apparent annoyance expressed by a low growl emanating from the elf. The pirate never wasted her time. Or opportunity. But this was not her show to steal, Hawke thought.

“Isabela, right?” recognition flickered across King Alistair’s face, but he had no chance to pursue it any further as Hawke swiftly pushed the rest of her companions towards the front line under the pretence of introducing everyone.

“And this is Fenris, Your Majesty,” she indicated the elf whose lyrium tattoos gave off a bluish glow signalling his unease, but who nodded solemnly nonetheless, with a curt “Your Majesty”; “and Varric Tethras.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty,” the dwarf came up closer to shake the King’s hand. He was likely well aware of the potential awkwardness of the situation, and Hawke felt grateful for his next remark. “To what do we owe the honour of meeting you, Your Majesty?” 

“Ah!” he seemed to remember and turned to face Hawke. “I was hoping we could talk. Would’ve been better timing before being emasculated by Meredith, but I’m not picky.” 

“That’s just her idea of Kirkwall hospitality,” Hawke offered with a grin, promptly returned by the King.

“Really? Kirkwall brutality must rip the skin off your face then.”

“Oh I could tell you some stories,” Hawke promised, “after we’ve discussed whatever it is you intended to speak about first, of course.” In all honesty, she was impressed with herself. Impressed she remembered to say that instead of suggesting a quick tumble in her quarters because, well, you look like the right kind of guy, Your Majesty. Hawke cleared her throat, nearly blushing at her own thoughts. 

“Of course, yes! Teagan, where do you think we could talk? This is Bann Teagan, by the way,” he added, “he’s my uncle, sort of.” Before the Bann had a chance to make any suggestions, or anyone could start figuring out why he was only “sort of” his uncle, Aveline stepped in with a gauntleted hand on her heart.

“I am the Captain of the Guard, Your Majesty. My office is at your disposal.” 

“Oh, I… thank you,” the King looked about, as if for assistance, and nodded appreciatively at Hawke whispering “Aveline”. “Thank you, Aveline, but I’m afraid even the walls of your office are full of extra ears. And those are not the ones I want to speak into.” Bann Teagan let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead. He looked like he had been having a tough time with King Alistair’s oratory skills. Hawke, on the other hand, quite liked what she heard, so she made sure to support it with another charming smile.

“I wouldn’t know this city better if I’d been born in it. I can find a few places we won’t be disturbed.”

“Hmm, that sounds pretty good. Only... I was thinking to visit the Fereldan refugees while I’m here. I want to provide all the help I can, you see, to tell them they’re welcome to return.” His face assumed a sorrowful expression. Whatever kind of ruler he was, it was obvious he cared for his people. Then, as if remembering, he added, searching Hawke’s eyes, “As are you. If you… after so many years, do you still consider Ferelden home?” It was too tough a question to answer. Hawke asked that of herself at times, and the response did not come easily.

“It’s… it is hard to say, Your Majesty. It’s quite complicated.”

“Of course, I understand.” He clearly realised he had made her feel uncomfortable.

“But we can talk about it later, maybe? After a few tankards of ale? Or...goblets of… whatever you prefer. I have some quite good Antivan brandy!” She felt incredibly stupid being excited at remembering that. And even imagining the King of Ferelden would want to visit her home. 

“That sounds nice. After we visit the refugees, that is.”

“It is out of the question, Alistair,” Bann Teagan started. “It is too dangerous to go to those parts of town.”

“His Majesty will be safe with us,” Fenris’ deep voice surprised Hawke as much as the very words he said. She noticed he was holding Isabela’s hand, and the pirate was so shocked by that she did not even try to take part in the conversation.

“Of course, we’ll be honored to accompany you,” Varric confirmed with a bow. “And Hawke’s estate is quite a safe place in fact, in case His Majesty decides to enjoy the Champion's hospitality, so no need to worry.” Hawke almost could not believe her ears. It sounded like she was going to owe Varric a huge favour. 

“I’ll post extra guards,” Aveline interjected.

“Yes, which would be equivalent to posting town criers along a huge arrow painted all across Hightown: attention everyone! A very important dignitary in Hawke’s place! Relax, Aveline. We have it covered,” Hawke promised, hands on the hilts of her twin daggers for emphasis and added weight to her statement. 

“Well it’s settled then,” the King grinned. 

***

Hawke was increasingly grateful to Varric for his help in ditching both Aveline and Bann Teagan by convincing the two they could be of great interest and assistance to each other. Hawke did not want her friend Aveline to switch into her role of the Guard Captain completely, constantly fretting about the King’s safety and thus attracting all the unnecessary attention. 

King Alistair was pleasant company - she soon discovered he was easy to talk to, there was no need to stand on ceremony with him, and she liked his humor - even if it was a little goofy. They chatted away about this and that on their way from Hightown, Hawke pointing out quite unconventional places of interest: here she had once been accosted by a potential mugger, who ended up running away from her without his own pouch of coin and holding his breeches in his hands, his belt cut by one of her daggers; there they sold wonderfully delicious but outrageously expensive - and even more outrageously tiny - pastries. 

“Ooh, I might want to try some of those,” the King paused, clearly interested. 

“If you enjoy sweets, Your Majesty, I’ll show you one of the dirtiest spots in Lowtown,” Hawke grinned to the accompaniment of Varric’s polite coughing.

“She means they make amazing pastries there. With clean hands even,” he reassured.

“I don’t really mind dirt, you know,” Alistair smiled, “I’ve seen my fair share of it. The Hero of Ferelden, before he was titled that, used to take us to all sorts of murky places. It was in one such place, for example, where … uh...” he broke off, scratching his neck, looking at Isabela, who finished the sentence for him, unconcerned.

“Where you met me! And that place wasn’t bad either, wait till you see Darktown.” The pirate became incredibly more relaxed and less forward with her advances on King Alistair since Fenris had held her hand in the Keep. The couple stayed behind, exchanging a few words from time to time, while keeping an eye on the royal figure ahead of them. It was sweet, really. 

The elf kept denying his relationship with Isabela was anything serious when talking to most, but not to Hawke. They shared a lot in their conversations, and after she had told him she could handle talking about his love life, he did start opening up ever so slowly. Scoffing all the time at the term “love life”, of course. Hawke was glad those two had found each other. And she was glad she had less competition at the present moment. Although competition for what exactly she would not be able to tell. She knew nothing could possibly happen between the King of Ferelden and herself - a refugee, who had somehow managed to beat the scary huge Arishok, thus ending the Qunari threat and becoming the Champion of Kirkwall. But it felt nice imagining things, and simply talking and flirting was enjoyable, even if it would lead nowhere further. 

Once they left the ostentation and grandeur of Hightown behind, the King’s expression faltered as he eyed the ramshackle houses and poorly dressed folk hustling about. 

“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” Hawke asked with a note of concern. He shook his head and then nodded immediately.

“Yes, it’s just… this is no better than parts of Ferelden. And Ferelden’s been near destroyed in the Blight. While here…” 

“Yeah, not all rulers focus on rebuilding and farming and feeding their people, one could say,” Varric commented. “We’re here,” he indicated towards a door, “Lirene’s Fereldan imports.” 

Hawke took them there so the King and the woman who had done nearly more than anyone for the Fereldan refugees in Kirkwall could meet. And so that those refugees could see their king, and maybe get more help, and definitely more hope. It turned out an even better idea than she had thought. 

Once inside, and having recovered from seeing the crowd and hearing only a few things from Lirene, King Alistair went right among those people, and talked to them. He told them they were all welcome back to Ferelden; he promised they would receive all the help the state and himself personally could provide; he gave them all the coin he had in his pouch - it was not too full, but the coins were silver and gold, and it was more than many of those people had ever seen, let alone held in their hands. And likely most important for those people, their king was made real: he was just a man, who blushed when he said he was sorry he could not protect them all, and who grieved for their losses, and who laughed at someone’s bawdy joke, and who accepted a simple necklace woven from coloured strings of wool from one of the kids, and tied it around his wrist right there. He was a good king, Hawke thought. And a good man. 

As she managed to extricate herself from the crowd who wanted to shower their gratitude on Hawke, too, and tell the King how much she was helping the refugees out, she stood in the corner with Varric, who was keeping a careful eye on everyone and everything, Isabela and Fenris doing the same in other corners of the shop. 

“He’s really popular with people. Seems like a nice guy, too,” the dwarf offered, and Hawke nodded silently in agreement. “Do you know what exactly he wanted to talk to you about?” 

“Not really, why?”

“I might have a hunch,” he said, propping Bianca more comfortably, without looking at Hawke or giving any more away. She waited for a whole few seconds, before finally settling her fists to her hips and demanding an answer. 

“Well?! This isn’t one of your novels, Tethras, to leave me in suspense. Doesn’t work that way in real-life conversations, you know.”

“Ooh, look who’s lecturing me on conversing! And who’s suddenly very touchy,” he smirked. Hawke hissed in response, squinting her eyes, a barb already on the tip of her tongue. “There, there, uncle Varric will tell you everything, don’t you fret,” he patted her arm, paying zero attention to her venom-spitting looks. “Kirkwall’s without a leader,” he looked up at her, all the seriousness of that statement written over his features.

“And how is it my fault Dumar died?!” she nearly yelled. It was a good thing the shop was already noisy. 

“Calm your tits, Hawke. No one’s thinking that. What I, and most probably the King of Ferelden think, is that this place needs a new ruler. Because right now the figure of highest authority here is the all-year-round-crazy Meredith.”

“I know that, Varric,” she exhaled loudly in annoyance. She did hate the Knight-Commander with a passion, and had fantasised about plunging her dagger into the undeniably still pretty - for a woman of her age - bitch’s neck. And she would do it, would have done it already, was it not for her concern of Bethany: she could not be sure her sister’s life in the Circle would be made easier by the act. “Of what help can I possibly be in that matter?”

“Of the most direct one, Hawke. Having a Fereldan occupy a post of high significance and influence in Kirkwall would be extremely advantageous for the King of Ferelden. You could be a new Viscount.” Hawke laughed. Hysterically, clamping her hand over her mouth to avoid drawing everyone’s attention from the King. 

“That’s just the funniest load of nug shit I heard in a while, Varric. I kill people,” she whispered, leaning in closer to him, “and take their stuff. And also make fun of them in the process more often than not. I’m not even near a candidate to become a new Viscountess.”

“See, I love it how you know all the nuances of nobility titles. Would be of help in that line of work,” he teased. Soon though, his face assumed a serious and honest expression. “I really think you could make a Viscountess. Even with your tendency to kick ass and nick whatever doesn’t lie straight, you’ve helped people here. You’ve already given them your time, your money, and your blood, and I believe they would stand behind you. Ask Broody what he thinks, if you don’t trust me on this one,” he nodded at Fenris, who had approached them just in time to hear Varric’s last few sentences. The elf’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but only briefly.

“Hm. That’s why you think he’s here. It makes sense,” he told Varric, who gave a self-satisfied nod, before turning to Hawke. “Varric’s right, to an extent. You wouldn’t be a perfect, or even a great ruler, but currently you’re the best candidate for sure.” His more realistic approach did not in truth make Hawke feel any better. 

“Did you have another idea of what the King wants?” the dwarf asked Fenris who seemed still deep in thought.

“Yes. I thought it might have to do with mages.”

“Come on, Fenris, let’s not get into this now,” Hawke grimaced. 

“I am not getting into this, Hawke,” he said slowly, with surprisingly more patience than she expected from him on that matter. “I’m just saying that was surely what Meredith was berating the King for when we found them.”

“True,” Varric tapped his chin. ”That might be the other reason.”

“Let’s just not talk about all the ridiculous reasons right now, all right? We’ve showed King Alistair some of the town, he’s met the refugees - it’s time for dinner,” Hawke cut off, assuming a stance with her legs a little wider and her arms crossed over her chest.

“Still considering taking him to your place?” Fenris wondered.

“Yes. You’re all invited too. Unfortunately,” she stressed. As she looked to where Alistair had been just a minute ago, she only saw a group of people chatting excitedly, and, turning her head, finally caught a glimpse of him being entertained by Isabela. Luckily, only verbally so far. 

Hawke strode towards them, painstakingly making sure she looked confident and relaxed, even if she did not exactly feel that way. She flashed Alistair a big, genuine smile.

“I’d say this went well. People really appreciate what you said and did.” The King cleared his throat, a tinge of pink colouring his cheeks above the dark-blond stubble, which made his open and friendly, but shy face look a little rougher - Hawke greatly approved of the combination. 

“I didn’t do anything much for them yet. I hope to do a lot more.”

“You certainly did enough to deserve a dinner,” she quipped, unsure how he would take it. To her relief, he laughed.

“I’m sure glad to hear that. To tell you the truth, I’m starving. And what’s worse, I haven't got a coin left on me.” 

“Don’t worry about that, dear,” Isabela murmured, “you’re Hawke’s guest. And she can be a very nice hostess, if she wants to,” the pirate winked at her. Hawke did not know if she was to take that as Bela surrendering her claim on Alistair’s attention, but she smiled appreciatively anyway. 

“I’ll certainly do my best. What would you like to eat?”

“Well,” he ruffled his hair, and the gesture, along with his smile full of boyish charm, and the battle scars on his hands, and his broad shoulders, made something melt pleasantly inside Hawke. “I really like… food,” he laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the dishes mentioned are real Thedosian food, taken from The World of Thedas Volume 2. :) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

As it turned out, choosing the food for the not-picky king was a complicated matter, for the simple reason that everyone else could not agree on what exactly should be served. Varric suggested Pig Oat Mash - also known as Hanged Mash - from the well-known, well-visited, and very greasy establishment where he happened to reside. When confronted with the fact that the mash was clearly a dish only eaten for breakfast, he switched to advocating for Starkhaven Fish and Egg Pie, for the sake of treating the King to at least some local tastes of the Free Marches. Isabela rooted for something sweet, insisting on Raider Queen’s Bread of Many Tongues; and when everyone started rolling their eyes at such a pretentious name for a bread, she told them to shut up and explained that the bread was in fact a kind of heavy but delicious cake, made from a wonderful Rivaini fruit, the description of which - “think of manhood, only slightly curved and yellow - it’s not too far off”, along with the ridiculous name - who in their right mind would call anything a “banana”? - called for even more eyerolls. Hawke herself suggested one Fereldan stew or another, the only important part it being sufficiently boiled to acquire the uniform grey color which allowed to completely lose track of any individual ingredients in it. When met with the argument that the King could eat that any other day, so what was the point of it, she crossed her arms and pouted angrily. Ever practical, Fenris saved the day, and as a result - the King from starvation. The compromise he suggested in fact turned out to be the best representation of Kirkwall, which, the great melting pot that it was, very well catered for the many disparate tastes of its inhabitants of various origins.

They would get a Starkhaven Fish Pie - good thing Varric had connections in a few fancy kitchens; serve it with Fereldan pickled eggs, the abnormal (by anyone’s but her own standards) number of jars of which Hawke always had in her pantry; and top it all off with an Anderfel fruit stew and some of those ridiculous tiny Orlesian tea biscuits. There was ample choice of alcohol in Hawke’s estate to help the guests digest all the food and let the conversations flow more freely. Varric and Isabela were tasked with procuring most of the food, while the rest headed towards Hawke’s mansion, first making a beeline for one of the Hightown Market bakeries for the biscuits. 

Hawke was bent on showing off her hospitality and her charm to King Alistair, but the damned biscuits in several small packets in her hands smelt sinfully delicious, and her stomach started rumbling, so she sent all her caution to the Void and opened one package up, stepping behind Alistair and Fenris, who were engrossed in an unexpectedly easy conversation about advantages and drawbacks of two-handed weapons versus a sword and shield. She personally vastly preferred dual wielding, be it daggers or short swords, or hatchets, to which declaration both men nodded politely, and went on to agree upon the marvelous feel of a weight in one’s hand holding a more manly weapon. She shrugged and slid her fingers into the packet, fishing out one tiny - hardly larger than a silver coin - biscuit. She inhaled its scent, her eyes closing involuntarily, and the next thing she knew she was swallowing the succulent and crunchy at the same time confection, licking her lips, and on opening her eyes, nearly colliding with the two men in front of her. 

“Hawke?” Fenris gave her the look of disapproval. 

“What?” she asked indignantly, mad at the fact that opening her mouth to speak allowed too much of this biscuit’s miraculous essence to escape. “Hmph,” she said next, quickly pulled another biscuit, threw it in her mouth so it was too late to do anything about it, and handed the packet to Fenris. He looked at her with eyes disbelieving at first, and then understanding as the aroma reached his senses. He cleared his throat, opened the package, and offered it to the King. Alistair, happy as a kid, dove his hand into it and grabbed a whole handful, but only put one at a time in his mouth. While Fenris stoically only took one and wrapped the package closed, Alistair stopped in his tracks and moaned.

“Andraste’s…,” he coughed, opting not to say what he intended to, “these are delicious.” 

“They are, aren’t they?” Hawke agreed conspiratorially, moving closer to him. For the rest of the way to her estate, the conversation about weapons was forgotten in favor of discussing sweets. 

As they entered through the main door, Hawke insisting on no ceremony whatsoever, they were greeted by a few raucous barks and the sound of claws scraping against the fancy wooden floors, as her mabari hurried to greet the mistress. 

“Shit, I forgot about Sparky,” Hawke bit her lip, just as a large mabari ran into the hall, excited to see Hawke and Fenris but confused by the smell of a new person; rushed to bump into Hawke’s legs, wag the tail at Fenris, and then undecidedly but very loudly bark at Alistair. 

“Heeey!” the King went down on his knees on the floor, nearly as excited to see the dog as the dog was excited to see Hawke. “Hi there! What a great dog you are! Yeah, a great dog!” He offered his palms to be sniffed and thoroughly inspected, before petting Sparky’s head and scratching behind the ear. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? You are! Yes, you are!” Hawke gazed at the man and the dog who looked like they had just found the loves of their lives in each other, and bit her lip trying to suppress laughter. As she and Fenris exchanged a look, she noticed an amused smirk on the elf’s lips. 

“Ahem,” she finally interrupted all the delighted cooing and whining, “Sparky’s actually a girl.”

“Oh!” Alistair exclaimed, a shade of pink covering his cheeks, but his hands still on the mabari’s ears. “I didn’t realise, I’m sorry,” he said to the dog before getting up to his feet. “Sorry,” he repeated to Hawke, “didn’t look at… the bits…” Hawke was fighting the nearly uncontrollable wish to laugh and to hug this big man in heavy armor for his kindness and sincerity. And that adorable blushing. Although for the blushing she would actually prefer to kiss him. Ahem. 

“Please, come in,” she motioned, “do feel at home.” And incredibly, he did after a while. A few glasses of Antivan brandy later, mixed with some snacks procured as a result of raiding Hawke’s pantry, to Orana’s horror - the poor woman was devastated they did not allow her to prepare anything for them - the King got rid of his heavy breastplate and greaves, and remained in a more relaxed set of simple, although made from fine fabrics, clothes. He spoke excitedly about his love of mabari, and the whole new kennel for those magnificent animals he had set up since becoming king. 

When the rest of the food finally arrived, and Orana was made happier by being asked to serve more wines and ales, the gathering seemed not much different from Hawke’s typical evening with her companions. There might have been less bawdy talk than when they stayed in the Hanged Man, but the jokes and the topics of conversation were nearly the same. After all, the King had spent as much time on the road and in battle as any of them - if not more than some - so he had lots of his own stories to trade. The stories which flowed only better, and became even more fascinating the more food and drink everyone consumed. 

“Wait, wait, wait, she really said that, Your Majesty?” Varric asked, holding a fish bone in one hand and a tankard of ale in the other. The pose somehow made him look a bit awkward, maybe because there was no way for him to hold a quill and scribble the tale down. 

“I promise you, she did! That’s what Morrigan was like,” Alistair laughed, emptying his own tankard - he had nearly complained the ale had been unwatered. “And please, call me Alistair. It gets so tedious being called “Your Majesty” all the time.”

“Andraste’s tits, I know! Fucking titles! Champion this, Champion that, and I sometimes just want to be called Marian!” Done with the short outburst, Hawke leaned on her elbow and supported her head tipsily with one hand. Silence spread across the table. Varric looked at Hawke apologetically, Fenris avoided her eyes and cleared his throat, and Isabela stared at her, breaking the silence as soon as she gulped down a healthy helping of the fruit stew, washing it down with some wine.

“Wait, your name’s Marian?” 

“Aren’t you a genius, Rivain?” Varric patted the pirate’s shoulder and refilled Hawke’s goblet with wine. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Marian,” Alistair said suddenly, looking at her with that warm smile. “You have a very pretty name. It suits you.” She grinned at him like an idiot over the rim of her goblet. 

“Wait, really? You knew?” Isabela leaned away from Fenris in disbelief. “Marian. Huh!”

“Alright,” Varric took control of the situation, “more drinks! Everyone needs more drinks, and we’re fresh out of wine. Rivaini, Fenris, come help me fetch more.”

“How much do you want to bring that you can’t carry it alo..?” Fenris started slightly drunkenly, but cut himself short. “Oh. You know what, I think I’ve had enough. In fact, Isabela’s had enough too, I’m sure.”

“No, handsome, I’m not even close to having had enough!” the pirate contradicted, but when met with Fenris’ deep gaze from under his eyebrows, she grinned. “Well, if you mean you want us to leave so we can go have a tumble at your place, why don’t you just say so.” 

“Ahem. I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Fenris nodded to the King. “Alistair. It was a pleasure.” The elf quickly put Isabela’s hand on his own arm and swirled her around towards the door. She only turned to wave at everyone, point her finger at Fenris’ back and wink vigorously. 

Those two suddenly leaving apparently was not part of Varric’s plan. 

“Well,” he bounced on the balls of his feet, ”shall the rest of us have any more to drink? Or are you short of time, Alistair?” 

“Oh, no. I’m quite free actually. I’d love another drink,” he said, looking at Hawke instead of Varric. Remembering himself, he turned to the dwarf. “And some of those tea biscuits, if there are any left,” he grinned.

“Well, there are some here. I’m sure it means Hawke stashed the rest somewhere else. Let me go fetch a bottle.” 

Left alone, Alistair and Hawke sipped their drinks and threw awkward looks at each other for a few moments, before Hawke finally asked what she had wanted to know for a while now.

“Are you in Kirkwall for long?” 

“Well, I… don’t know actually. I didn’t plan a long visit, but it would depend on how everything goes here. I wanted to talk to you and… we seem to have forgotten to do that,” he laughed.

“But I enjoyed the talk we did have very much,” she smiled back. 

“Could we… maybe meet again tomorrow? To talk about… serious stuff.” He looked expectant, and maybe even hopeful? “If you don’t have other more important plans, of course.”

“No, I’d love to meet you tomorrow!” she answered way too quickly. Before they could say anything else, Varric returned with a bottle covered in spiderwebs.

“This one’s apparently one of the best you have, Hawke,” he stated, moving clean goblets for Alistair and himself closer. 

The wine was good, but at that point everything seemed good to Hawke: the food delicious, the company ever so pleasant, her own body utterly relaxed. But for one small part of her maybe, which tensed when Alistair untied and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic having asked her permission, saying he felt way too hot in Kirkwall. She almost wanted to say “Yes, yes! Just take it off, take it all off!” She looked at the two men at the table quietly, making sure by their reactions she did not in fact say all that aloud. 

“How come there’s no queen of Ferelden?” The King and Hawke both nearly choked on their wine at Varric’s sudden question. Alistair brushed the wine droplets off his chin with the back of his hand - for that fleeting moment Hawke thought what a brilliant idea it would be to lick those drops off his face - and cleared his throat.

“Not for lack of trying,” he said finally. “On the part of everyone else, I mean. I get introduced to noble ladies all the time.”

“But?” Varric suggested, eyeing Hawke with a hint of a smirk.

“You know how it is,” Alistair shrugged and set his arms on the table - strong arms. “I feel like they’re all interested in the king. Not in me, Alistair.” 

“I understand. It is not easy to find someone sincere when you’re royalty,” Varric confirmed.

“Exactly. I don’t want to marry someone just for the sake of having a wife on parchment and in the eyes of everyone else. I could’ve married Anora for that,” he snorted, downed the rest of the wine in his goblet, and ruffled his hair again. Hawke thought how she would like to get her hands into those dark blond strands and do the ruffling for him. Instead, she dug her fingers into her own short black hair and ruffled it, nearly mirroring Alistair’s moves. Varric chuckled without offering any further commentary. 

“Positions of power do make it more difficult to make friends, or find lovers,” Hawke reflected. 

“But not always,” Varric contradicted. “Look at you two,” he said, motioning at herself and Alistair, and Hawke was sure all colour must have left her face. “You’re both in positions of power, not equal, of course, but close enough for the sake of comparison. And you’ve just made friends with each other.” 

“That’s true,” Alistair chuckled warmly, stood up, filled his own and Hawke’s goblet, Varric’s being still full, and raised it in toast. “To new friendships!”

“To new relationships!” Varric altered the toast.

“To new chances!” Hawke dared. While drinking, she risked a look at Alistair, caught him looking back at her, and hid her sudden blush behind the red of the wine in her goblet.

“So, it’s time for me to go back to the Hanged Man, it’s a bit out of the way in Lowtown,” Varric explained to Alistair. “Will you need assistance in escorting His Majesty to the Keep, Hawke?” Before she could reply - though she had no idea what to reply, she had not even thought about anything further than inviting Alistair to her house - he continued, turning to the King. “Or will you be enjoying Hawke’s hospitality further?” Hawke opened her mouth to protest: what the fuck was he saying? It almost made her sound like a whore. “She does have some spare rooms, I believe,” Varric finished before she let her indignation spill. 

“Oh, I… I don’t rightly know,” Alistair stammered a little nervously, but still sporting a smile which she interpreted as hopeful.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Hawke came to the rescue. “I apologize for not suggesting it earlier. I didn’t think you would, but you know, it’s probably better not to go out now, while you’re not exactly sober. People might see you and… talk.” 

“Thank you. Isabela was so right about you.” Hawke’s heart stopped. Fucking Rivaini. “You truly are a wonderful hostess.” 

Varric shook Alistair’s hand, and turned to Hawke.

“Will you walk me to the door, Hawke? There’s something I wanted to discuss very quickly about that deal with the mine.”

“Now, Varric?”

“Just a few words, I promise.” 

“Excuse me,” she smiled to Alistair, “I’ll be back in a moment. Sparky will be happy to keep you company while I’m gone.” On hearing her name, the mabari lifted her head and one ear up, and, having received encouragement from Alistair, immediately left her spot in front of the fireplace to join him. 

“So what is it you so urgently needed to discuss with me?” she nearly hissed at Varric by the door.

“I care for you, Hawke. Just wanted to ask if you know what you’re doing.” She raised a single eyebrow mockingly.

“And what _is_ it I’m doing, pray tell?” 

“Openly flirting with a monarch all evening. Just as he is flirting with you.”

“What?” she scoffed, hiding a very pleased smile at the fact Varric noticed it too. “Don’t be nonsensical.” 

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. You’re using three-plus-syllable words. Which means your well-tucked away and hidden nobility starts to surface. Which means you’re off your tits. I can see what you’re doing, and he can see it to, just don’t do anything you’ll regret later, is all.” She took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the truth of Varric’s appraisal. 

“I won’t. Thank you,” she lowered herself to hug him but got up quickly. “Sorry, leaning down like this makes me feel a bit nauseous.” 

“Yeah,” her friend sighed. “Maybe better just go to sleep you two. Separately. For now,” he smiled both warmly and apprehensively. 

“I’ll be fine, Varric. I promise. See you tomorrow.” He waved his parting salutation and closed the door behind him. 

Back in the dining room, Alistair was sitting on the floor, playing with Sparky, and both seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it. Hawke - sarcastic, bold, at times even reckless Hawke - suddenly felt shy, and did not know what to say, or do. So she went for the easiest.

“Do you want to take a little walk with Sparky? It would be safe, I mean no one would see us - I have a small back garden.”

“Sure. Some fresh air would be nice.” 

And so they found themselves outside, in Hawke’s own small piece of nature in the middle of the naked stone and brick that was Hightown. The garden was walled too, but she was in fact glad for that as it granted her another rarity - privacy. She often sat there late in the evening, usually throwing a stick to Sparky, breathing the air made so much more pleasant by the trees and the grass and even some flowers Orana had planted, having some wine, and gazing at the skies. Sparky, who normally could never get enough of the stick-throwing business, would eventually get tired and slump by Hawke’s side, breathing heavily, laying her head on her mistress’ lap or feet. Those were precious little moments of peace and quiet for Hawke, which she barely even shared with her friends, it was something just for her. But tonight - she did not know how or why - she was there with not only her mabari, but with a young man she admittedly really really liked. And who, for some stupid damned reason, also happened to be king. Her king, theoretically: although she lived in Kirkwall, she still was from Ferelden. She sighed. 

“You alright?” Alistair asked.

“Yes,” she smiled softly, not at all alluringly, despite all her previous wild ideas and imaginings. “Just thinking of what you asked earlier, of what home is. Where it is.”

“Mhm. I understand. I’ve been on the road and all over the place for very long too.”

“Does Denerim feel like home to you?” she wondered with genuine interest as they strolled towards a bench.

“Huh. Shooting the question back at me, are you?” he chuckled. “I guess I’ll have to answer the same way you did. It’s complicated. I can’t exactly say I feel I belong there, but I’m starting to. All this being a king thingy still feels weird at times. Like sometimes I wake up in the morning in that huge bed in that lavish bedroom and just think, what in the Void am I doing here? And then I remember, and get up, and do my job. And I like it. It’s not easy, but I can actually do things, change things, make things better. I like that. And the Royal Palace does most feel like home when I have friends visiting. The Hero of Ferelden comes from time to time. And some others, from the old gang.” His lips stretched into a smile at the memories, and Hawke could not help smiling too, at both the happiness in his eyes, and the fact the King just called his old-time companions a “gang”. 

“Your friends are lucky.”

“Why?” His eyebrows climbed up in genuine surprise. “Oh, you mean because they get to stay in the Royal Palace whenever they want to?” Hawke laughed, unsure if he was leading her on or being serious. The cheeky creases in the corners of his eyes probably meant he was joking.

“Because you really love and value them.”

“As you do yours.”

“True.” 

“It’s sweet how they take care of you. Don’t think I didn’t notice. I think they might have been a little jealous? Or just protective. Some of them might have been both.”

“What are you talking about?” Hawke gasped in surprise.

“Hm. I’m not sure I won't get slapped in the face for asking that,” he grinned, scratching the stubble on his cheek. That soft scraping sound immediately made Hawke want to touch it herself. Instead, she sat back on the bench, arms crossed, a daring smile on her face.

“I thought you were quite a risk-taking kind of fellow.” He grinned.

“There was something between you and Fenris, wasn’t there?”

“Oh,” she failed to catch the word before it slipped out. “I don’t know how you arrived to that conclusion, but yes, there was. Something. But we’re just very good friends now.”

“I gathered as much. It was impossible not to notice Isabela’s part in all that.” They both laughed.

“You know what she told me about you?” Hawke bit her lip the moment the words left her mouth - it was a stupid idea to talk about that.

“Well, I guess it depends on how much she’s prone to exaggerating,” he grinned shily. “Nothing happened.” 

“That’s what she said. But that it was a close call,” Hawke smiled and kept worrying her lower lip between her teeth. 

“I guess it was,” he straightened and turned towards her on the bench, their gazes locking. Hawke felt lost. It seemed like a perfect opportunity, and the fluttering in her belly meant she very much wanted to take it, but in truth, she did not know what to do with it. He was a king after all. Although he seemed an impossibly decent man for that kind of job, she was unsure whether he expected her to simply kiss him, or sleep with him and forget all about it the next morning. The thoughts kept ricocheting around her hazy head. And what if she did sleep with him? It was not like she did not want to. In fact, she very much did. She liked the way he looked at her. She might quite enjoy what he would do to her as well. But what stopped her was the tedious, nagging, boring thought of - and then what? It was unlike herself to doubt so much, especially about a potentially pleasant romp between the sheets. Or up against a wall, or whatever. But it was also true she did not often find herself contemplating that with a royal figure. She licked her lips and sighed. 

“Alistair, I’m… very glad I met you.” Fuck. Where did that come from? She must have panicked after all. 

“I am very happy I met you,” he inched just a little bit closer, “Marian.” Shit. She did not care, she was going to do it. She swallowed. Licked her lips again and caught him watching her do that intently. Sparky suddenly whined, edging between them, and rushed towards the gate, through which someone had just entered. Orana, her elven servant, nearly fainted at the sight of her mistress and the King of Ferelden sitting close to each other on a bench in the dark. 

“I’m... Maker, I’m so sorry, serah Hawke. Your Majesty.” It had taken Hawke time to help the woman feel more at ease in her house, but this was apparently too much stress for her to cope. She went on her knees, still clutching a big jar in her hands. “I beg your forgiveness, I was just going to water the flowers. I thought everyone was asleep,” she explained to the ground, while both Hawke and Alistair got to their feet and came to help the woman stand.

“It’s fine, Orana. Everything’s fine,” Hawke assured. 

“Sorry we startled you,” Alistair added in a soft, kind voice, helping her hold the water-filled jug straight. Hawke thought that at that moment she wanted him more than ever. Her poor servant sniffed, dared to look up, and was unable to resist Alistair’s smile, and finally smiled back. “See, it’s all better now. Do you need any help with the watering?” Now that was obviously too much, and Orana started shaking her head violently. 

“We’ll leave you to it then,” Hawke laid her hand on Orana’s arm. “It’s time everyone did go to sleep after all. Good night, Orana.”

“Good night, serah Hawke. Good night, Your Majesty,” she curtsied, blushed at the King answering her in kind, and rushed towards the flowerbeds.

Hawke, Alistair and Sparky returned inside the house, all slightly disappointed by the loss of fresh air and the quiet of the night, and maybe of the missed opportunity. Hawke suggested showing Alistair his room for the night - her best one, after her own bedchamber. She considered putting him up in her room, but decided against it, unsure if all her underclothes were put away and everything was in order. 

They stood by the open door to his room for the night. 

“Hope you’ll be comfortable here. I’m just further down the corridor,” she started without any intent that crept into her mind just this moment and made her falter and blush. “If you need anything, that is.” He leaned on the doorframe, smiling, looking at her with slightly squinted eyes, as if contemplating, or trying to figure something out about her. 

“I’m glad I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said finally.

“Well, now you’re sure to do so,” she laughed, pointing around, “you’re in my house already.” 

“You know what? This seems too good to be true. I’ve never before spent the night in the house of someone I so wished to see again soon,” he laughed back softly, and her knees went a little weak. He was telling her, was he telling her what she just heard?

“I’m glad I can make your wish come true,” she smirked with more confidence than she in fact felt. Her pulse was in a crazy rush, and she felt strong and weak at the same time, and wanting, and then bold and reckless - herself again. “And you know what?” He raised a single brow, a half-smile playing on his inviting lips. “I’ve never kissed a king before.” He watched her for a moment, his smile broadening just as his eyes seemed to darken, then made a step towards her. It was all it took for him to be right in front of her, or rather - above her. 

“I can help with that,” he said in a low voice, leaning down slowly, lifting her chin with his fingers… Hawke saw nothing else. She had closed her eyes - too quickly, all too much like an inexperienced Chantry-girl, even before his lips touched hers. But when they did, she let out a moan which was a sign of the woman she was - familiar with pleasure. 

As her lips parted with the moan, her tongue darted out and flicked against his. Alistair wrapped his arms around Hawke - this close he was so much bigger than her - and squeezed her gently and deepened the kiss. His strong arms, his hot breath, his soft lips made Hawke both pliant and demanding. She let her hands roam over his upper body - the broad shoulders, the taut chest. She felt hungry and dazed. Hawke was oblivious of how long they stood there, but when they finally parted, it definitely was not after a single kiss. Both panted and looked at each other up close, and she finally let her palms brush against the stubble on his cheeks. He chuckled in response, touching his forehead to hers. When his hands finally fell from her waist, she took a step back, and looked in his eyes. Before she could say anything, his hand stretched out to touch her cheek and slide to the back of her neck.

“It’s been a long time since I was so excited about tomorrow,” he whispered, grinning.

“For me too,” she nodded, rubbing her cheek against his palm before walking away towards her bedchamber. It was juvenile, she knew, but half way down she turned to look back. Alistair smiled at her, standing still in the doorframe. She stepped into the room and threw herself on her bed, rolling the blanket around her. “Me too,” she thought. She fell asleep before she remembered the small packet of Orlesian biscuits tucked away in her bedside cabinet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I greatly appreciate all and any feedback, and will be happy to hear from you. :)


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